Moonglow

by Michael Griffo

  Part 2

  The moon is gone and I am lost

  My body, mind, and soul

  are tossed

  Into a prison, no longer free

  The warden moon holds the key.

  Chapter 8

  The Day After

  Remember, Dominy, you are blessed.

  The sky doesn’t look normal without the moon. Where’s the black velvet? Where’s the silver circle? Where are the things that fill my heart with hope and gratitude?

  A chilled breeze wraps itself around me, and a few seconds later I shiver. I’m a different person. I don’t have to look down at Jess’s body to know this; it’s a certainty that something inside of me has changed. Yesterday the moon was the enemy, and now I’m seeking it out, begging for it to arrive. I’m like a vulture circling above a bleeding animal, willing it to turn into a carcass so I can carry out the tasks I was born to perform. Jess’s lifeless body reminds me that I’ve done just that.

  “Jess!”

  My voice is rough and sore and hollow. I wait for a response, although I know she won’t answer. She’s dead. My best friend is dead.

  Her ravaged body is two feet from where I’m standing, and the reality starts to drill into my brain and into my mind and into my heart, until it can no longer be ignored. No! This can’t be real! Close my eyes; open them. Nothing’s changed, except everything has. And it’s all because of me. But no, it can’t be! I can’t possibly have done this. Could I? Could this . . . horror . . . be my doing?

  I reach out to hold on to something, anything to steady myself, but there’s nothing. I’m alone. My bare ankle scrapes against the pointy edge of a rock, and I feel blood trickle out of my body. The shock steadies me, and I look down to see a stream of red trickle over my anklebone and onto my sock, staining the white cotton material pink. The color reminds me of yesterday, of my innocence and my youth—everything that’s been taken from me and everything that I will never have again.

  Another breeze, another shiver. This time they both attack my body with more intensity. There is no yesterday; there is no innocence and youth, only today and this new life that I’ve chosen or that’s somehow been forced upon me. Whichever one it is, I know that it’s a life from which I’ll never be able to escape.

  I hear a rustling in the distance, and my body takes over, interrupting my thoughts. I crouch down, all fours on the ground, and my head jerks to the side to search the area for intruders. This position feels odd and familiar at the same time, like I was a marine or something in another life and the memory was lost to me until now. I twist my head around to look behind me and back again. Nothing. I’m disappointed because I was hoping to see a wild animal staring at me, watching me from the entrance of the hills, which makes absolutely no sense because if that did happen I’d soon be as dead as Jess. But maybe that’s my wish? Pray for death by attack from a cougar or a mountain lion, so the world will think that Jess and I died the same way, so I can take my secret with me to the grave.

  The rustling sound catches my ears again, and my back stiffens. Once again my body takes over. My body is certain; my mind is hazy. I don’t want to die; I want to fight. How disgusting can I be? The survival instinct has already kicked in, and while my mind may want to convince me that I wish I were dead, my body clings to life. My eyes shift to the left, the right, while my head doesn’t move, and my opponent is finally revealed; it’s not an animal I heard, just my jacket rolling in the dirt. There’s no immediate danger, no chance for death, and for some sick reason I’m disappointed.

  Sliding my arm into the jacket I notice there are tears in the left shoulder; it looks like a claw ripped through the material. Now I really am confused. Was I attacked? Did Jess and I stumble upon some lone creature on our way home? Did we disturb some thing that was hungry and on the hunt? It would be a rare occurrence, but not unprecedented, as there have been such reports in this area before, an area well past the town border that the locals call Dry Land. Once or twice I’ve heard about someone being attacked, but usually there’s a scuffle and the animal retreats back into the hills to feed. Could it be that the food supply in the hills has dried up? Or were we just unlucky?

  The material of my jacket, a kind of lightweight parka, is covered with dirt and weeds. I look closer, and they’re not weeds, but hair. Could be strands of my own hair, but they’re not long enough. Short bristly strands of hair that are a deep red. Against my green jacket they remind me of Christmas, candy-cane wrapping paper, Barnaby’s gift, and home. Home. I’ve got to get home before my father and brother wake up. The only way I’m going to make it is if I stop thinking and start acting.

  I’ll never be able to carry Jess home with me, but I can’t leave her here on display either. Out here in Dry Land, she’ll be exposed. Some early morning hiker might find her, or worse, the wind will carry her scent, and it’ll be picked up by an animal just waking up in the hills or stir one out of its sleep with the promise of breakfast. If anything can lure an animal out of the comfort of its home hidden deep within the dense foliage of the hills, it’s the smell of blood. My only choice is to conceal the corpse.

  I wince when I touch Jess’s skin. It’s already inhuman; it feels like ice. There’s loud shouting going on in my head: Don’t think about what you’ve done, could’ve done, might have done! Don’t think; just get on with the job. I grab underneath her calves and start to drag her over to a fallen tree, no longer suitable to provide shade, but perfectly suitable to provide camouflage.

  I place the tree’s fallen branches over her body, and she disappears; her life is gone, and now her body is too. Almost. Peering out from underneath the branches that crisscross to create a natural lattice, Jess’s blue eyes are staring at me. I’ve been so careful not to look at her face, to focus only on her body, her new weight, that I don’t recognize them at first; I think they might be stones or absurdly, two birds in a nest that I accidently covered up. But they’re not; they’re parts of Jess, parts of my friend. Her eyes surprise me; they aren’t filled with accusation or judgment; they’re kind. I wonder if they know that they may be looking at their killer.

  My fist bangs against my forehead, once, twice, three times in an attempt to jostle my brain back to the past and remember exactly what happened, but my memory is unclear; it’s like the night brought with it a fog that refuses to fade away. Why would I have done this? Why would I want to kill my best friend? Think! Think! There has to be a more plausible explanation than the one that keeps clutching at my heart. But what other explanation can there be? Yes, I have some scratches on my body and my clothes are torn, but that’s nothing, nothing compared to what happened to Jess.

  My hand navigates its way in between the zigzag of branches until it finds Jess’s eyes. Two shaking fingers touch her eyelashes. They don’t feel natural; they’re hard like the bristles of a toothbrush. One finger is poised over each eye, and I hesitate. The warmth of my tears feels good against my cold cheeks, and I grab my wrist with my free hand to steady myself. I’m not ready to say good-bye; I’m not ready to close Jess’s eyes and cover up the blue forever, but I have to do this; I have to close her eyes so Jess can move on. If we do have some kind of spiritual afterlife, I don’t want Jess’s soul to be lured into staying inside her body because she can still see the physical world. I want her to escape, move on, and go to a much better place. A place that I may never be allowed to enter.

  “Good-bye, Jess.”

  The blue is gone, and I hear a sound come out of my throat that I’ve never heard before. I don’t recognize it, but I understand what it means. It means that somewhere inside of me lives the filth. All my fears over the past few months, all the suspicions I’ve had were not just coincidences; they weren’t just creations of my own imagination. They were clues. The sounds coming out of my throat grow louder and angrier and sadder, and I feel my fists banging against the dirt and my body. Striking out against everything and nothing at the same time.

  Finally, the wild fu
ry takes its toll on me, and I slump over exhausted, my forehead pushing into the ground, my body rocking back and forth. All I can hear is my breathing, strong and loud and steady; it’s like a code that triggers something in my brain. I’ve heard this sound before. I can’t remember when or where, but it strengthens my conviction; none of what I’ve been feeling lately is my imagination. For months something has been forcing its way inside of me to take control. For months something has been trying to turn me into something unrecognizable, and it’s finally succeeded.

  Who am I?

  What am I?

  I have no idea. All I know is my life has changed. Why and how I’m determined to find out, but for now all I know is that Dominy Robineau has been turned into a new person.

  And it’s definitely not a blessing.

  Chapter 9

  My house is quiet. The only sound comes from the clock ticking in the kitchen. Even the voices that often fill my head are silent, taking a much-needed rest and leaving me alone. I would like nothing more than to stop, stand still, and melt into the silence, lose myself in the absence of sound. But I can’t. I don’t have that luxury. I’m still visible, which means I can still be caught.

  Standing in the living room I close the door behind me, careful not to make a sound. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, so only a dull light penetrates the curtains, illuminating the lower half of my body; the rest of me remains in darkness where it wants to be, where it belongs. Slowly, I walk up the stairs, thankful my father either forgot or was too busy to follow through on his promise to pull up the carpet. My footsteps are cushioned; on hardwood my arrival could not be kept secret.

  I pause at the top of the stairs when I see a light peeking out from under my brother’s door. He’s awake. All he has to do is open his door and I’m screwed. One step, two steps, only a few more until I reach my bedroom door, until I can retreat into my own privacy and start to put this nightmare behind me. My hand hovers over the doorknob, and I watch it shake. I’m a fool. This nightmare isn’t ending; it’s only just beginning. With one eye on Barnaby’s door, I grip the knob and turn it. I don’t want to be caught unaware at the last second. I push; I’m inside; I’m free. I’m not.

  “You are in so much trouble.”

  In the shimmerlight I see Barnaby sitting on my bed. He’s fully dressed; his ankles are crossed. He’s been waiting for me, waiting for this moment since I strangled him or perhaps since the moment he realized that as his big sister I would always make him feel inferior. Now he has the upper hand to watch me squirm under his superiority and beg for his silence. Sorry to disappoint him, but he’s waited in vain.

  “Get out of my room.”

  My voice is unraised, but unwavering.

  “Dad’s been out looking for you all night,” he says. His hands are holding the sides of the mattress, his crossed legs lifting up, then down, up, then down. It’s like he’s on a swing and enjoying every moment of his ride. “Where were you all night long?” Barnaby asks. “Doing it with Caleb?”

  I hate to spoil my brother’s fun, but I need some alone time. I grab him by the shoulder and pull him off my bed. He wriggles, trying to break free of my hold, and I jerk forward, my jacket opening up to reveal my torn shirt underneath. Barnaby loses his bravado; I’m still his flesh and blood, and he turns as white as three-quarters of my walls.

  “What happened to you?” He can’t take his eyes off my chest, and it’s not because he’s trying to get a quick look at my bra. He’s frightened.

  “Nothing,” I reply. A stupid thing to say, but it’s all I’ve got.

  “What do you mean nothing?” Finally Barnaby looks me in the eye, and he looks more concerned than I’ve ever seen him look before. Looks like my nightmare is going to be shared. “Your shirt’s all t-t-torn up,” he stutters. “And . . . and you’ve got scratches.”

  “Shut up, runt!” I let go of Barnaby so I can cover myself up. “I told you it’s nothing.”

  “Did Caleb do this to you?” he asks. “Dominy, did Caleb hurt you?”

  Three wrinkles appear on Barnaby’s forehead, the exact same wrinkles that appear on my father’s forehead when he asks a serious question. If nothing else my father and brother will be forever connected by three squiggly lines that appear on their flesh. They’ll never be able to deny each other like they’re going to want to deny me.

  “No, I wasn’t with Caleb.”

  “Then who were you with?” Barnaby insists. “Who did this to you?!”

  His voice catches with fear, and now he not only looks like my father, but he sounds like him too. He’s afraid something terrible has happened to me. If he only knew the whole truth his expression would change, but he can’t; he can’t find out what really happened. No one can.

  “It’s none of your business!” I scream. “Get out of here!”

  I want him to stop asking questions that I can’t answer; I want him to stop staring at me with my father’s face; I want him out of my room. One strong shove and I get my wish. Barnaby stumbles backward and falls onto the floor; shock and pain register in his eyes. I slam the door and lock it. I hear him scramble to his feet, then I hear him bang on the door.

  “Dominy!!”

  Between the ferocity of his voice and his fists, I expect the door to splinter into millions of little pieces. I step back because I seriously don’t think the door stands a chance against Barnaby’s rage, and I am about to crouch down behind my bed to take cover from the inevitable flying shards of wood when the banging and the yelling suddenly stops. The silence is deafening, and I can’t hear a thing; it’s when I venture closer to the door that I hear his voice.

  “Dad, she’s home!”

  I don’t think—I don’t have time—I just act. I kick off my sneakers and grab some dirty but untorn clothes from my bedroom floor, fling open my door, startling Barnaby, who’s standing right on the other side holding his cell phone, and run to the bathroom. The lock clicks shut just as I hear Barnaby shout.

  “Come home now, Dad!” my brother squeals. “Something bad happened!”

  I laugh out loud when I hear that. I guess my killing Jess could be described as bad. It can also be described as insane, unconscionable, “twenty to life” in state prison. All of the above. Laughing turns to sobbing, and I can feel my body shake; I think I’m pacing the tiled floor of the bathroom, but who knows? I could be standing still; I could be jumping out the window. It’s like my body and my mind are disconnected, like those skew lines we learned about in geometry, living independent of each other, destined never to connect.

  My knees crash to the floor, and the skew lines are given a jolt. Suddenly my mind and my body crash into each other, and I crawl to the toilet bowl just in time to throw up my guts. My legs feel like hundred-pound weights that are being pulled away from me, and I clutch the side of the bowl, closing my eyes so I don’t have to see the mess, the vile disgust that’s rupturing out of my body. But I can taste it, and I recognize it. It’s the bitter taste from last night, and a sick, twisted part of my mind wants to swallow because I remember how much I liked it. Violently, I shake my head to prevent that from happening, and I can hear myself scream while retching.

  Somewhere off in the distance I can hear my brother calling out to me, telling me that my father is coming home, that it’s all going to be okay. It’s never going to be okay, I want to shout. Nothing, not me, not him, not this family is ever going to be okay again after what happened. He sounds like he’s crying, and I want to tell him to save his tears for someone who deserves them.

  I spit once more into the toilet then flush away the foul contents. Looking in the mirror, I’m startled because I look normal. A little pale, but otherwise completely normal. Until I take off my shirt. Across my chest, just below my neck, are four scratches, four more perfect skew lines that will never connect but are forever linked. They’re brownish, littered with small crusty blotches of dried blood that are even darker, and they run about six inches long. Not very deep, hardly
life-threatening, but a reminder that Jess fought against me before I took her life. A symbol of my guilt. Then I remember that they are connected, not to Jess, but to my father. My scars are exactly the same as the scars on my father’s face in my dream.

  I can’t look at myself anymore so I bury my face in my hands, which only makes me feel worse because my fingernails are still chock-full of Jess’s skin. Luckily, my stomach is empty, so when I lean over the sink I just gag; nothing comes out.

  Furiously I wash my hands until I think they’re going to bleed. I rummage through the drawers underneath the sink until I find the brush with the soft ivory bristles that was given to me by an aunt years ago, but that I have never used, and start scrubbing my fingernails. I stop when they feel raw. Tentatively I look at my fingers and let out a deep sigh; I let out the breath that I’ve been holding in. They’re clean.

  “She’s in the bathroom!”

  My brother’s voice echoes off the tiles as if he’s in the room with me. I hear my father bounding up the steps; sounds like he’s taking them two at a time. He’s as eager to see me as I am not to see him. Quickly, I take off my clothes and put on new underwear and jeans. Just as I’m putting on the T-shirt that I swiped from my bedroom floor, my father bangs on the door.

  “Dominy, open up!”

  One last look in the mirror and it’s remarkable; I look fine. I can do this. I can look my father in the eye and lie that nothing bad happened last night. No cover story is formulating in my brain at the moment, but I’m sure when the time comes inspiration will strike. Before I can turn to unlock the door, reality strikes first.

  Decorating the sink are tiny pieces of Jess’s flesh. Pieces of pink staining the otherwise white porcelain. She won’t leave! She won’t stay away from me. It’s like she wants to remind me that I can’t run from what I’ve done. I’ve taken her life, and she’s prepared to haunt me for the rest of mine.